


Red

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 17:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10903737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge considers Bono's relationship with the colour red.Set in present day.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,  
> So last night after the omg OPENING NIGHT I started thinking about the colour red, as one does when presented with a red screen that makes one weep. And then I was like, hey Bono has (Red) as well, in fact there is a bit of red that follows them through their career, so then of course my brain went into overtime. This, I suppose, could almost be read as a mini sequel to Tomorrow Never Knows, given that they're both set around the start of a new tour. Except this is more dreamy. And set, in my mind, during rehearsal. And I mostly wrote it because life sucks today. But I hope you all enjoy!

They’re in a hotel room in Vancouver when Bono says, “Think about it,” with a smile that’s as warm as the night. 

His cheeks are pink, his eyes hazy, and Edge takes the wine glass from his hand before leaning in. It’s a kiss that lingers, that leaves him wanting more, but as always Bono is not to be deterred. “Think about it, Edge. Out of all the colours in the world, which one would you say has the most symbolism attached to it?” 

Of course Edge knows the answer, but there’s a difference between stated facts and the way Bono sees the world. And if it’s with a cynical eye there is a reason, if it’s abstract the words come out close to a melody, and when it’s through rose coloured glasses the warmth shines through, as he looks to the world with his heart on his sleeve. Often Edge wonders what it’s like to see with such clarity, and sometimes when he listens to Bono speak he can almost picture it. 

For that reason, he stays quiet and waits.

“There is no other colour but red that courses through us all in such a way. It’s life, Edge. The reason our heart beats, and I’m not just talking about blood here. What are we without love? Without passion, or courage? Without rage? We see red, and it gives our heart a reason to beat just that little bit faster. There’s a reason there is so much symbolism attached to the colour -- it’s who we are. It’s  _ life _ .”

Bono tastes of wine and smells like a summer breeze. He doesn’t need to speak to get what he wants--it comes through with that look in his eye, vibrant blue and needy--but he says it anyway, his voice like honey as he whispers in Edge’s ear. It’s enough to make Edge’s heart beat that much faster until he’s warm all over, laughing as they fall into bed together, gasping as Bono gives him a reason to, and when he closes his eyes red is all that he sees.

Afterwards, Edge traces the curve of Bono’s body as he sleeps, first with his mind, and then with a feather-light touch. He stops only when Bono stirs, returns the sleepy smile he receives, and when he says  _ go back to sleep _ the response that comes only faintly resembles actual words. 

He waits until Bono is asleep again before letting his mind wander. The night has reduced him to memories and fantasies, though eventually he returns to their earlier discussion, and Edge follows the thread from there.

It might have been 2006. It might have been earlier. But it was a cool morning in New York, Edge is almost sure, when he asked, “What is it with you and the colour red?” He remembers, though, the way Bono laughed in response, how it felt a little off.

“You’ve asked me that before, you know.”

“No I haven’t. When?”

“I don’t know,” Bono had said, “but I remember you asking.”

Later it came to Edge, in the middle of the night when he was looking for something else. And from there it stayed with him. It’s something he thinks of whenever Bono seems just that little bit fragile. Though it’s not a weakness on Bono’s part. It never has been. It’s just what makes him human.

There had been another time he’d asked. Another time that stays, no matter what, and sometimes Edge wishes he could be rid of it.

Red paint and black ink is what he remembers, and Bono’s mouth drawn in a firm line as he worked. Panicked at the thought of being noticed, and then at the thought of being overlooked, Edge had lingered in the doorway as still as a statue. Eventually, he'd given in and knocked. And when that hadn’t worked, he’d moved in slowly, reading the words, taking in the angry strokes and the smudge of red paint on Bono’s forearm. It might have been 2001. It might have been later in that year, and it might even have been in Dublin. 

Edge has never quite been sure of much about the finer details of that memory. But he remembers the painting, the look on Bono’s face when he’d turned around, and the silence that had continued when Edge had asked the only thing he could think to break it. 

He turns onto his back, but finds it just won’t do. So he turns back to his side and watches Bono sleep, until slowly he starts to drift, and soon he’s close to fading away. It’s only there that his limbs start to turn heavy. It’s only then that Edge feels as though he’s floating far above the bed.

Before that, though, he finds Bono still and alone, far away in another world. In another room. He almost knows the room. He’s almost sure, and he almost leaves. But there’s that look on Bono’s face that makes Edge stay until his presence is known. It’s always something that makes him stay. And when Bono drifts back to him it happens in pieces, with a frown on his face that doesn’t quite dissipate, even when the smile comes on through. “Edge,” he says, “I was just thinking about you.” Only good things, Edge hopes, and when he says as such Bono’s smile broadens. “Define good.” 

Edge doesn’t even bother to try. He just steps forward, and Bono slumps away from him, letting out a little  _ hmm  _ when his back meets the wall. He’s not quite himself yet, Edge knows. He’s still drifting, still floating on cloud nine. Coming down, caught among the noise that lingers in his head. And when Edge shuts himself away from the world he can almost hear the remnants as well -- the beat of the drums thumping behind him, the pulse of the crowd. The voice in his ear that sings to him, always to him, but not only. 

Now, though, it’s just Bono’s steady breathing he can hear. He’s lost the crowd, but he doesn’t quite have it in himself to wait for Bono to do the same. He’s lost the crowd. He can barely even remember them in the first place, can barely remember much of anything.

It’s only when Edge knows he’s dreaming that he sees a silhouette caught in a sea of red. He reaches out a hand, and when it connects his fingers turn to shadow. It’s a darkness that spreads, pulling him down until they’re drifting together in a sea of red, and Edge knows there’s only one word that he needs to say when Bono asks, “It’s good to be home, isn’t it?”   
  



End file.
